


No Earthly Way Of Knowing

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Coda, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>314 coda. Nothing ever goes the way Kurt imagines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Earthly Way Of Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during 314 but pre-Regionals, so it deals with some things in that episode. I expand on tension between Blaine and Kurt, so if you consider that Blaine-bashing and are uncomfortable with that, please take caution. (Also, this was written way before Dance With Somebody, so it's long been jossed.)

In Kurt's imagination, which may or may not have been heavily influenced by taking in large doses of _Grease_ as an impressionable child, senior year was a magical time. It was his impression that this last year was the glory year, where seniors who had been through it all and survived could just rest on their laurels, waiting for college. They were practically already gone, after all. They were ready to ditch the kiddie stuff and begin their lives, their real actual lives, and they could cast off the shackles of being obsessed with popularity and the regimented high school caste system and start over fresh somewhere else.

But the reality, as always, was dim in comparison to Kurt's heavily embroidered and bedazzled ideal.

So far, Kurt's senior year was kind of like one long panic attack, punctuated with the shattering of various dreams and failed attempts to do something, anything, to further his chances of getting out of Lima. February had proved to be the worst month yet.

The spike of hope and adrenaline he got in becoming a NYADA finalist was the silver lining to a pretty bleak 2012. Blaine's eye injury had taken up precious weeks, even sopping up Valentine's Day until the eleventh hour. Valentine's Day was kind of a big deal; it marked a year since Kurt had up and expressed his feelings to Blaine. They might not have been actually together, but didn't laying it all out on the line count for something? The anniversary was only in his own head, he supposed. Either way, though, Kurt had spent that whole week getting more attention from a guy in a gorilla suit than Blaine, swooning like an idiot thinking the sweet and thoughtful declarations of affection were from his boyfriend, when none of it had been. None of it. That kind of hurt.

And then... everything that had happened with Dave Karofsky... God, he didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't will it or wish it away. It was just this grim shadow cast over everything, all the time, darkening every corner. It was so sobering, so scary that it had made the days that surrounded the news feel unreal somehow, like the movie reel of life had broken at some point and the soundtrack was off-time as the disjointed picture sped onwards without Kurt's permission, leaving bits and pieces missing, the whole picture becoming incomprehensible.

Throughout it all, throughout the entire school year, there was a sore spot that just kept festering and getting worse and worse – Sebastian – and now Finn and Rachel were alienating everyone with their insane teen wedding.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking on Kurt's senior year.

He just wanted to _do something_. He wanted to put a stop to the wedding, but nothing he did or said seemed to penetrate Finn's thick skull, and there was just no reasoning with Rachel once she got some big idea lodged in her crazy brain. She'd send you to a crack house if she was trying to hurt you and almost get you suspended if she was trying to help you.

He wanted to rip Sebastian a new one, tear him apart for everything he'd done, hurt him somehow. But he didn't dare. It wasn't him. He'd read through Karofsky's entire Facebook wall and knew each of those foul, shameful, hurtful words typed at him were the things he had been so desperate to escape from rather than endure. He wasn't about to be cruel to Sebastian, even if he was the most loathsome person Kurt had ever met. But the anger was there nevertheless.

There was nothing he could do about David, except find a way to let him know that there was someone in this world who didn't want him to leave it, though he hadn't figured out how to do it without possibly triggering a relapse in the way he thought he felt about Kurt. There was nothing he could do about Sebastian Smythe.

But, Blaine... there was something he could do there. There was a lot he could do there to get things on track again.

For, yes, things had kind of derailed. It wasn't that he and Blaine had gone back to doing nothing, and it wasn't that Kurt didn't love the experiences they did share, the touching they did do, the times when the stars aligned and nothing got in the way of the two of them getting in a good grope-session. There was nothing wrong with being a little PG/PG-13. _Au contraire_. But right then things with Blaine somehow felt strange and tangled, just a big knot of tension Kurt didn't quite understand how to unravel. He didn't blame Blaine for feeling weird these days. Kurt felt weird, too.

But with his dad and Carole away on one of their many weekend trips in support of his dad's newfound political career and Finn off with Rachel pretending to be excited about not living up to his full potential, Saturday was obviously the perfect time to lie around in his bed with Blaine, making out and getting their pants down.

And they'd been well on their way. The lights were low, a tasteful playlist (with just enough glam rock to appease Blaine, just enough romantic ballads to keep it meaningful, and just enough slow R&B sex-jams to get the mood across) was on Kurt's iPod, and he'd made sure to tell Finn to text when he was on his way home so there wouldn't be any surprises.

Kurt was ready. He knew what he wanted.

He'd taken Blaine by the hand and led him directly upstairs to his room, where the party had already conveniently started and was just waiting for them to join. Blaine had smiled at the set-up, danced with him through a Bowie song saucily enough, laughed and let Kurt get him out of his adorably stuffy little prepster bow tie. Kurt was halfway through unbuttoning his checkered Brooks Brothers shirt, revealing a dip of snowy-white undershirt that was Kurt's next target, when Blaine said, "Wow. Kurt, what's gotten into you tonight? We haven't even talked, and you're..."

"I'm not in the mood to talk," Kurt had returned flirtatiously.

"As much as I love the, uh... initiative, and the Keith Sweat – really, I haven't heard this song in years – I kind of think we should, don't you? I mean, it's been a rough few weeks. I know I could stand to talk."

Kurt had paused heavily, flashing back to how he'd tried to ask Blaine if he had been upset by Sebastian repeatedly proving himself not to be the all right kid Blaine had always insisted he was and getting snapped at about how he didn't want to talk, then smiled and said, "Okay. Let's talk."

Talking, talking. Right. He could talk. He could talk with the best of 'em. A little bit of back-and-forth wasn't going to distract him. It wasn't the passionate fall-into-bed-and-rediscover-each-other scenario he'd been envisioning, but if he could just move the discussion towards the bed, there could still be some cuddling and flirting and maybe follow-up fireworks.

In the end, as offensive as Mr. Schuester's doomed rendition of "A Little Less Conversation" had been, Kurt found that it did have a good point. All they did was get in an argument over everything that came up.

Kurt didn't want to talk about Sebastian, who had been nothing but conniving and cruel since the first second Kurt had laid eyes on him and whose penitence Kurt doubted was anything but calculated. He didn't want to talk about Karofsky – not with Blaine. It had been hard enough to spill his guts to the God Squad, the confession literally painful in his chest and throat when he'd had to put it into real words for them to hear and judge. Blaine didn't need to know about Karofsky's many overtures towards Kurt before his attempt on his own life. Not right now. Everything was just too weird and sensitive and he knew Blaine would tell him it wasn't his fault and put the blame on David like Quinn had, and Kurt just couldn't let it even go there. He felt so much horrified pity and responsibility for Karofsky that it hurt in ways he couldn't even dissect.

He also didn't have it in him to say, _Yes, Blaine, of course I agree we could all benefit from letting you sing all the songs and come up with all the choreography. You know how New Directions works so much better than my step-brother, who was elected co-captain of the club two entire years ago and got us through Sectionals completely unprepared, and the teacher who got us to Nationals last year._ And he wasn't in the mood to hear Blaine practice his rap for Regionals. He was drained of all diplomacy, and sick of trying to support both Blaine and Finn and ignore all the power struggles Blaine wound up in with everyone.

He wanted to say, _Blaine, I want to try it. I want to do it with my mouth, get you off that way..._ Kind of coy, you know. But right then it was starting to feel more like, _Look, do you want a blow job or not? Because I've been obsessing over it and tonight's the night, and I bet if Sebastian was doing this he'd be on his knees in front of you by now, just going to town, and you'd just love that, wouldn't you!_

But he didn't. It didn't feel safe to have dreams or desires anymore.

It had been a bad month.

They agreed to call it a night; Blaine hadn't said good night angry. Kurt had seen him to the door with a smile and a perfunctory good night smooch. _He_ was a bit angry. Not with Blaine – more just angry at life in general, and disappointed.

He'd shut off the music, doused the tea lights on his vanity, despaired of the thoughtful Kleenex close at hand. It seemed so dumb in retrospect, naïve. He'd never been able to get any guy to succumb to his charms on purpose. What had he been thinking? That kind of manipulation had only ever truly worked on Carole, whose acid-wash jeans were long gone. And it really wasn't a lot better than Blaine dragging him into the backseat, was it.

Kurt thumped sullenly down the stairs to go nick a piece of his stepmother's stashed away Valentine chocolate, passing by Sam's door. It been left open just enough that his light illuminated a stripe across the hallway floor and down the stairs; Kurt could see him sitting on his bed with his legs crossed, a schoolbook cracked open in front of him. He was reading, or maybe studying, chin in one hand.

The dim realization that Kurt had forgotten to even inform Sam that Blaine was coming over dawned, making Kurt stop abruptly on the landing and stare up at the light of Sam's room. Jeez, he and Blaine could've been getting real and Sam could've walked in on it at any time.

What would he have walked in on, though? Absolutely nothing but Boyz II Men further ruining the mood by being all sexed up when he and Blaine were anything but.

Kurt wasn't really used to Sam being in their house yet – he was still getting used to running into Carole in the kitchen and sharing a bathroom with Finn, and besides the disastrous splitting of a single bedroom with Finn sophomore year (another dream gone awry in the cold light of reality), Kurt had pretty much never had a male friend stay over for an extended period of time. And also, he was seriously distracted lately. And also, Sam was really quiet.

Living with him was closer to what Kurt had stupidly thought living with Finn might be like before they'd actually shared the same roof and Kurt had discovered Finn's weird latchkey kid/gross guy habits – like taking off his shoes and socks and leaving them wherever, stinking up the place till Kurt had to go and get the Febreze and spritz the sweaty pile – and run face-first into homophobia that had gone undetected till then.

But Sam was extremely polite. Sam never reached at the dinner table. Sometimes he prayed, sitting there silently for an extra few moments before digging in, but he never did that let's-all-pray thing some people did. And he said stuff like, "Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Hummel." Or even, "You made this, Kurt? It's really good." Always with a smile.

Never did Kurt hear the distracting banging of drums and wind up with a headache while he was trying to mend a tiny rip on an otherwise pristine sweater he'd bought for an insanely discounted price. Never did Kurt stumble over gigantic Nikes left right in front of the door. Never did Kurt find himself doing Sam's laundry or hanging up Sam's jacket so it wouldn't be wrinkled the next day or ironing Sam's shirts for him. Sam never added fat-laden things that might accidentally kill Kurt's dad to the grocery list – in fact, he seemed to do his own shopping for nights when there were no dinner plans, like he thought he was living on his own, and once, Kurt had caught him coming back from the _laundromat_ , carrying an armful of clean clothes into the house without even the aid of a laundry basket or something.

"Whaaat are you doing?" Kurt had asked him. "We have a washer and dryer."

"I didn't know if I should use them," Sam had said blankly.

"Don't be silly. That's what we have a washer and dryer for. For laundry. You can use whatever you want, Sam. Do you need me to show you how to work them?"

"No," Sam had huffed. "I'm actually really good at doing laundry."

"Well, do you need a hamper?"

"I'm good, I can carry everything I've got."

The only actual interruption Kurt had endured so far was when Sam had spent an entire afternoon and evening trying to come up with choreography for their Spanish assignment in glee and spent hours flailing around in the living room. It was more of a hilarious distraction than an actual interruption, really. Eventually Kurt had just barged in to take charge of the routine, which desperately needed refining and that extra little bit of _duende_ in the form of appropriate costuming. Between them, Google, YouTube, Mike Chang on speed-dial, and a fruitful trip to Lima Heights, boots and bolo ties and their own miniature booty camp happened, and the grin and profuse thanks Kurt had gotten was plenty reward enough for the evening lost. Not to mention the boots.

As far as living with high school boys went, Sam was pretty much painless. His one fault seemed to be leaving doors open a crack, which wasn't even a bad thing, really...

One Saturday morning, Sam had left the bathroom door open a good eight inches while he was shaving. Kurt had walked by, distracted by a text from Rachel, glancing in without thinking about what he'd see, and gotten a panoramic mental snapshot of him shirtless, towel around his waist, damp hair not even combed yet, a halo of steam surrounding his reflection in the mirror. Kurt had scooted right on by, all hustle and bustle, but the glimpse of Sam peering at himself and slowly, carefully drawing a razor across his jaw set up Kurt with nosy, futile wonderings about what kind of shaving cream he used, what kind of aftershave, if he moisturized or not, if he used sunblock or not, if he had to manscape any since he was on the synchronized swimming team... things he'd never really thought about before right then. He didn't want to actually ask about Sam's personal grooming habits, of course, but it made him realize that Sam never left his shaving cream and razor in the sink or his toothbrush in the sleek toothbrush holder Kurt had picked out himself from Sheets-N-Things. The medicine cabinet held mostly Finn's junk. The drawers rolled with half-empty tubes of toothpaste, hair gel, Old Spice deodorant sticks. All Finn's.

Sam...

Kurt's head tilted.

Sam was a guy. A guy neither related to him nor dating his best friend, yet who had dated multiple girls who seemed to play fast and loose with the sanctity of the Celibacy Club – and he was living with Kurt. Living in the room right next to him, in fact. Right there.

Kurt was rounding and climbing the stairs again with his eye trained on the open crack of Sam's door before he knew it, his brain racing without his permission. He rapped the knuckles of his door frame, then poked his head into what was currently Sam's abode.

"Sorry about the music," he chirped. "I didn't know you were trying to study."

"It's Saturday night and it's your house," Sam responded, turning a page in his book, followed shortly by another.

"Still, I would've notified you that I had plans to... listen to music."

Sam just smiled at him politely, the flip of his blond hair to one side making him look like an _Archie_ comics character. "You didn't have it playing all that long."

"Well, Blaine had to leave early," said Kurt lightly.

He watched as Sam's mouth quirked in an understanding tug and he turned another restless page. Kurt wondered if he was even really reading the book.

"Do you have a minute?" he asked.

"Sure," said Sam, so Kurt pushed the door open and invited himself into the guest room – Sam's room.

In the two months Sam had been living there in the room between his and Finn's, it had taken on the feel of him, going from an empty room with spare furniture and bare walls that were just crying out to be decorated as a fun summer project to Sam's space. It was still a little empty compared to Finn's cluttered, grubby room and Kurt's every-inch-accounted-for space, but Sam had taped up a few things: the Guppies' training schedule, a Michael Jackson's _This Is It_ poster, a 2012 calendar featuring colorful galaxies right above the bed. His parents had sent him back from Christmas in Kentucky with some college-y stuff like a lap desk, which was leaning unused against one wall, and a bright blue collapsible hamper that was mostly full in the corner.

"Hey, you got a hamper!"

"Oh... yeah."

Kurt glanced around casually, taking in Sam's guitar case leaning against the wall, gaze finally landing on the cluster of stuff Sam had on the bedside table: he could immediately see deodorant and some kind of cologne lit up by the lamp they were under, but there was other stuff, too, bottles and his shaving kit and a picture frame and his cell phone and keys and lots of scraps that were probably receipts or notes. All his toiletries and clutter, Sam kept close by, out of anyone else's way.

"Is something up?" Sam asked.

"Oh, no, nothing. I just saw your door open."

Kurt stopped, hanging there in the doorway with his hand on the knob, and a brief silence ensued.

"If I can help, I will," said Sam.

His voice was friendly, resolute. Kurt bit the inside of his lip; Sam clearly thought he needed to talk about all the stuff he'd talked to the God Squad about already. That was the last thing Kurt wanted to talk about right then. Sam clasped his hands together casually, the red-striped cuffs on the sleeves of his powder blue hoodie riding different spots on either forearm, and looked at him with attentive eyes.

Kurt hesitated.

It made total sense to take advantage of his presence and impartiality. Kurt wouldn't have to even call him up or suggest they meet somewhere like the Lima Bean just so he could ask Sam awkward questions and probably have Sebastian Smythe slide by and make some kind of oily remark about Kurt's lack of sexual prowess.

"Are we... friends? Actual friends?"

"'Course," Sam said, the exaggerated 'o' his mouth briefly formed making him look like Kurt had asked a ridiculous question.

"Cool. I'm glad," Kurt said casually. To fill time, and to complicate his own escape route, he pushed the door shut again behind him, leaving it open a small crack.

"Is something up?" Sam asked. With his hands folded like that, he looked like he should be behind a desk making a business deal.

"Can I ask you something? It's kind of personal."

"Well, I don't know what business of mine you don't actually already know..."

Sam tilted his head, and Kurt mirrored the movement in apologetic acknowledgment. So totally a valid point. Since Sam had moved to Lima (and away, and back again) Kurt had seen him pretty much naked in the locker room, visited the motel where he was secretly living while he was homeless and given him discarded clothing, and been regaled with tales of Stallionz by Finn before Finn had realized Sam might not want everyone to know he'd been working as a stripper and put a cork in it. He knew Sam's clothing sizes, what kind of underwear was in that hamper, and all about his dangerous love/hate relationship with potato chips.

"It's personal," Kurt repeated patiently.

Sam just cocked a brow. "Okay."

Kurt pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, wavering between further delicacy and just outing with it.

"You've dated plenty of girls," he said. "You don't have to tell me specifics, but... have you ever... gotten a blow job?"

The word both felt and sounded funny in Kurt's mouth. It wasn't like he'd ever talked about the act itself so directly, although he'd declared on numerous occasions that Apple Tech Support could blow him. Sam leaned back, eyes staring wide at Kurt for a moment before he transferred the startled owl look down at his book.

"I told you it was personal."

"Yeah, you did," said Sam. "For a second I thought you were going to ask if I've had sex, and I was going to say, 'I don't know if you know this, but I gave one of those girls a ring and promised never to pressure her, and remember how another one of those girls turned out to actually be a lesbian?'"

"Well, I kind of am asking, technically. After all, before you came along, Santana had a long and storied history with Puckerman and one fateful evening with Finn – and also, oral counts. I wouldn't be surprised if you told me she'd tooted your horn regularly after Celibacy Club."

"Nope," said Sam, with some strange cheer.

"I'm just asking if you've ever been to that particular base, with anyone. No names. Please."

"Ah... no," Sam repeated, and chuckled. "It's not even really on my radar."

"No?"

"Uh, to get past first base, I kind of need a girl to want to date me," said Sam.

Kurt felt himself sway a bit in his spot.

"Not necessarily," he said, though he was short of breath.

He looked at Sam, and Sam looked at him, brows knotting slowly.

"Well, you're hardly alone. I've never gotten one, either," Kurt said, with an air of commiseration. "Or given one. But I want to. Give one, I mean."

He watched Sam's eyes widen and then go wandering again, watched his fingers awkwardly slide apart so he could thumb at the pages stacked in his book.

"I was kind of chickening out about it," Kurt continued. "I don't know why. It just seemed like a big deal, and Blaine and I have been taking it slow. Think glacial."

Sam's mouth tucked crookedly, but he stayed silent, his forehead set with seriousness. He probably had no clue what to say in a sudden, uninvited conversation about Kurt's sex life; maybe he was just determined to be there for Kurt, with his own offer of help hanging over him. Maybe after Kurt was finished, Sam would break out his bible and point out a relevant passage about patience or chastity or something and offer to pray with him about it. After deciding sticking through a reading from the Book of Awkward was worth it, Kurt pressed on.

"But, I don't know. This past week... when Mr. Schue asked us something we were looking forward to, I couldn't help but think about it. I mean, I am really looking forward to my dad taking congress by storm, but when I asked myself what else I want – besides NYADA and Broadway and eventually winning a Tony, obviously – it just came to mind, and I've been thinking about it every day since then, actually. But I think it's just me. I think I'm the only one thinking about it and focusing on it. Is there something wrong with me? Like, I should be happy with what I have. I mean, I am. Now is, like, the worst time, there's so much other stuff going on, and it's not like it's important. It's not like it's necessary – I just..."

"Look, nothing's wrong with you," Sam interrupted, seeming fully able to say that much with confidence. "Uh, I think... every guy wants that stuff."

"Not Blaine," Kurt said petulantly. "He's a guy, right? Isn't that kind of a thing with guys? Aren't they biologically programmed to want to get their rocks off?"

Gamely, Sam said, "I dunno. Maybe it depends on the guy. He seems kind of... I don't know. He seems like maybe he'd rather do stuff that's his idea."

"Yes, he is a control freak," Kurt grumped. "I know that's becoming increasingly obvious in glee."

"Mm," Sam acknowledged in a low, wry hum.

"You weren't even here for Pep-Talk Gate. Trust me, Finn would've loved to have been the one to make Blaine storm out of rehearsal. But you know, sometimes I just don't get what I'm doing wrong. Get a beer in him and he'll make out with Rachel or have the greatest night of his life dancing to the worst of the '80s with other guys. Sober, I ask him if he wants to rip off my clothes and get dirty and he says I wear too many layers."

Kurt crossed his arms and sighed, but weirdly, a weight had unexpectedly evaporated from his shoulders, and the sigh felt deeply relieving, like he'd finally let off some steam after holding it in for way too long and his body could suddenly bend. He slumped and rolled his shoulders in the tide of the abrupt relaxation.

Sam spoke up. "Is it really that you want to... get to the next base with Blaine? Do you think maybe you just want to be close to someone right now, 'cause of everything?"

It was sweet – perceptive and wise and kind of faultlessly ignorant all at the same time. Kurt managed to smile. However odd it was to even be having an actual conversation with Sam that wasn't about Enrique Iglesias or whether or not a jacket fit him, he did feel reassured that even a member of the God Squad thought it was normal to want to get it on. And he wasn't beyond noting that, apparently, he and Sam really were friends. He'd never had a conversation even somewhat like this with a guy that wasn't Blaine. Finn didn't freak out and get jumpy if Kurt reached out to adjust a tucked-under collar on his shirt anymore, but Kurt couldn't imagine actually talking like this with him without there being some obvious discomfort on both their parts. And the difference between talking to Rachel or Mercedes about his relationship and talking to a guy about another guy was so palpable, the air he was breathing in felt thicker.

"Yes, I do really want to be close to someone right now," he acknowledged. "I want to just check out of the real world for a little while and be with the person I love and – know that I'm that person that they want to be with, too, all alone in our own little world. I want to love someone and have them love me and want me."

"I get that," Sam said.

"Yeah," Kurt said softly. There was a good chance he would never be able to watch _The Bodyguard_ again without thinking of Mercedes breaking Sam's happy-go-lucky heart in front of the entire glee club. "I know you do."

Kurt waited expectantly, but unlike just about anyone else Kurt spoke to on a regular basis, Sam didn't take the ample opportunity to steamroll the conversation towards his own pains or complaints. He merely returned the sort of smile Kurt had just given him – tight and somehow sad, but sincere, too – and fiddled with the corner of the page of whatever textbook he was reading. It was starting to curl up from the way he was thumbing it. Kurt wanted to tell him he was a great guy and that Mercedes would probably come around, but even if she didn't, any girl would be lucky to date a guy like Sam and maybe someday round the bases with him. It just wasn't right that Sam was sitting alone on a Saturday, away from his family, not even able to text with his crush since it was obvious that had come to a grinding halt.

"But I also really do want to do it," Kurt blurted instead.

Sam's lips pushed flat to each other and curled up on one side; his eyes seemed bemused in how round they were when they focused on Kurt.

"Maybe try again after Regionals?" he proposed uncertainly.

That's probably what Sebastian Smythe would do, Kurt thought – he'd certainly tried and tried again to get with Blaine. In fact, if Sebastian was standing in Kurt's shoes, he'd probably be all over Sam, purring.

Kurt sighed again, stifling the part of his brain that wouldn't stop harping on that shallow idiot. He needed to refocus. Do something comforting, like watch _Legally Blonde_.

"I need chocolate," he said, thinking again of Carole's Valentine stash.

Sighing, Sam leaned over and groped under the dust ruffle that was on the guest bed his brown plaid flannel duvet had mostly taken over, clashing with everything ever. To Kurt's surprise, after some unsuccessful fishing Sam finally produced a shiny red heart, one of the smallest-sized Russell Stover boxes of candy that was nearly dwarfed in his hand, and held it out to Kurt. "Here."

Kurt's brows shot up. "Oh-ho! Cheating on your diet, are you?"

Sam shook his head. "I was going to give it to Mercedes. I had one box a day I was going to give her, leading up to Valentine's. But I didn't get the chance. You can have it."

"Oh! Are you sure?" Kurt asked sympathetically.

"Take it," Sam said, leaning toward him. "Take it."

"All right! Twist my arm," said Kurt in a merry voice, taking the box before Sam could fall out of his bed or something. "I should've known you'd never cheat on your diet."

"Please don't eat them in front of me," Sam requested, expression resigned.

"You don't want a piece?"

"Nah."

"Not even one?"

"That's okay."

"One little tiny piece?" 

"...Okay, I do want one!" Sam sighed. "But I really shouldn't. I'll get all sugar-hyped."

"Half a piece?" Kurt coaxed. Something about just making off with every bit of the chocolate and leaving Sam alone with his astronomy textbook seemed mean and wrong, especially since Sam had intended to woo a girl with it, and giving it to Kurt instead was probably pretty disappointing. "The label says zero trans fats."

Sam groaned reluctantly, shutting his textbook. "Only because the past few weeks have really sucked."

"Amen," Kurt sighed. The textbook was relegated to the bedside table (Sam didn't seem to mind that some of his notes fluttered to the floor) and Kurt took a seat on the edge of the bed, cracking the box open with absolutely no reverence, attentions hanging for a long moment on the junk on Sam's bedside table. The picture was of his little brother and sister, Stevie with his arm around Stacey looking taller than Kurt remembered him. Sam had to miss them like crazy. It was sweet he'd actually brought a framed picture of them with him from home. Inside the little heart, three chocolates were nestled close together in little paper cups, each shaped and tinted differently. "So what do you like?"

"Uh, I dunno, they all look like about a hundred extra crunches," said Sam.

"Sheesh," Kurt lamented. "Work with me, here, Sam. Knock it down to fifty. You're only having half and you'll just swim it right off Monday morning."

"Okay, fifty," laughed Sam. "And that's kinda the problem. I'll be wearing a swimsuit Monday morning. A skimpy one!"

"I fail to see the problem," Kurt teased. "Okay, I'm just going to hazard a guess on these, Forrest Gump. It seems like maybe this one's dark chocolate... probably at least one has caramel... not sure about this mystery piece. Do you like stuff like marshmallow or coconut?"

"Yeah. Whatever is fine. What do you only want half of?"

"Hm. Choices, choices. Usually if I indulge, it's white chocolate," Kurt said thoughtfully.

He'd just decided on cracking open the mystery piece and plucked it from its little ruffled paper cup when Sam said, "Uh, so Finn told you that too?"

An edge of concern rose in Kurt; there was so much going on lately that he didn't know what Sam was talking about, but if there was news he'd somehow missed because his step-brother was keeping him out of the loop for stupid reasons, the way things were trending lately, it was bound to be bad.

"Finn told me what, now?"

"White chocolate," Sam repeated flatly.

"...What about it?"

"I mean, he told you a _lot_ ," Sam said. "But I thought maybe he didn't get that far."

"Uh, Finn isn't exactly keeping me in the loop as of late, Sam," Kurt replied, shifting his concentration back to dividing the chocolate into somewhat equal halves. It was splitting easily enough, the thin chocolate coating housing a thick golden caramel that stretched between the halves before breaking and drooping silkily over his fingers. He offered the half that had managed not to get all over his knuckles to Sam.

Sam took it slowly, looking like he was investigating the whole exchange warily.

"So you like white chocolate, huh?"

"Well, I mean, chocolate is chocolate, I'm not exactly that picky," Kurt answered, tilting his hand and mouthing the sugary-sweet caramel he could feel melting on his fingers as it soaked up his body heat. "But yes. There's just something about it that makes it taste sweeter. I'm probably crazy, it probably doesn't taste that different. I just think of it as homey and comforting more than, like, sinfully chocolatey."

After a moment, he glanced at Sam, who was just sitting there with the chocolate in his fingers, staring with those round eyes of his, a vacant smile on his mouth.

"What?" Kurt asked archly.

Sam shook his head once and bit into his chocolate, then moaned, "Holy shit," around his thumb and index finger, taste buds clearly startled.

"Good?"

"Mmm." Sam slouched back against his pillow, eyes drifting shut. "Hide the rest from me."

"One bite and you want to go splitsies on everything," Kurt crowed delightedly, sliding a knuckle into his mouth so he could lick the caramel out of every crevice. "So, a box of chocolates a day for Mercedes, huh? You ate all the other boxes, didn't you?"

"I'm not nuts," said Sam, licking his thumb matter-of-factually. "I gave them away. I just kept this one in case."

"In case of what? Patches? 'Cause I know sometimes he doesn't go away till you just give him something."

"Uh, no. I gave one to Rory to give to Sugar, one to Quinn, and one to Carole..."

"What?" Kurt pulled his tongue from between his fingers. "And here I thought that big box was from my dad! I've been nicking pieces for the last week!"

"Great, she's going to think I'm eating them!" Sam said. "Like, in secret. Stealing back the chocolate I gave her!"

"Nah, she knows you calorie-count. She's so happy someone else is doing that with her, by the way. She'll think it's Finn," Kurt dismissed. With his fingers finally clean of the soft, sweet mess of caramel, he popped his chocolate into his mouth, savoring it as it melted across his tongue and into his throat. He divided the next, dark fudge-filled piece in half and handed it to Sam wordlessly. Sam took it without protest or complaint, though he did look slightly guilty. Kurt smiled at him, satisfied, and they sat in reverential, well-deserved silence, cheating on their diets and eating their feelings. Kurt noticed that Sam crossed days off his space calendar with bold Xs. February 14th had been circled in a pretty festive red, then marked out several times, so the black lines across its box were even bolder and more dejected. Kurt's mental calendar felt a lot like that – a countdown of day after day, the universe hanging heavily over him as he lost time and opportunities.

They'd just polished off the final piece, which had some kind of mint-flavored marshmallow filling, when Sam finally said, "I can feel myself getting fatter."

"Shut your pouty heathen mouth," Kurt shot back. "It's not polite to complain about your perfect body when there are people with much less in the way of abs around."

"I feel all weird already. I shouldn't have eaten more than a half."

"Relax! It's okay to indulge every now and then. You can't go through life depriving yourself all the time, and you can be sure to eat extra healthy the next few days. But I mean, if you really feel bad, I take full responsibility. I've got _The Tracy Anderson Method_ in my room. You can borrow it."

"Does that work?" Sam wondered.

"Are you kidding me? It kicks my ass harder than Cheerio practice and booty camp combined. I can't even make it to the end most of the time. I hate it. I have actively campaigned against violence and don't condone it, which you know, but I have to confess, sometimes I have these rage dreams where I just bean her with one of those five-pound weights."

"Oh, so Tracy Anderson's a woman?"

"Of course."

"It just sounds like a guy's name."

"Tracy Anderson?"

"Yeah, like Mr. Tracy Anderson. That doesn't sound like a guy to you?"

"She's very perky and positive and makes you wanna die."

"So it's a good workout."

"Highly recommended."

"This is just kind of making me want to watch _Celebrity Fit Club_ or something," said Sam. "Or, like, one of those Dr. Drew shows."

"Yes, _Celebrity Rehab_!"

"Those shows always make me thankful, you know. I know that's not why people watch them, but. They make me see the big picture. When things get tough, I just think of people who have way more money than me and all these people around them telling them how great they are, but their lives are just these wrecks, and I think, 'At least I'm okay, at least I'm healthy. In the scheme of things, I'm not doing that bad.'"

"Interesting," said Kurt, warming to the idea. "I think you're right. Things are... incredibly tough right now, and I feel like I've been through a lot. But in the scheme of things, my life isn't as bad as a lot of people's."

"I think you have a good life. Super nice stepmom, awesome dad who has a great business, huge house, nice clothes... you're smart, you can sing and dance, you know what you want to do, you have... your boyfriend. It's all about perspective." Sam paused, then leaned forward, expression mysterious, and asked lowly, "Wanna see something cool?"

Kurt's face felt warm. "Sure."

Sam grinned, then leaned back and reached for his bedside lamp. "Okay, get ready. It's about to get dark."

With a click, the light went off, and the dark was like a deep navy blue velvet, soft and subtle. It was immediately obvious what Sam meant to show him by turning out the lights. A hundred or so tiny stars, yellow-green and giving off a faint glow, dotted the ceiling.

"Oh, look!" Kurt let out, staring up at the ultra-fake night sky. It was kind of mesmerizing.

"They're stickers. I got them in my stocking on Christmas and Carole said I could put them up," said Sam, sounding happy there in the darkness. "They're reusable, so they peel right off. Don't worry, I won't just leave them on your ceiling forever. I'll take 'em back to Kentucky with me."

"They're cute," said Kurt nicely, pretending he hadn't thought about the paint job and wasn't somehow jarred about the reminder that Sam was just a temporary part of the household. "Is that the Big Dipper right above you?"

"Yeah, kinda. The best I could do. Little Dipper, too." There was a pause while they both stared at the clumsy little constellations, then Sam continued, "I used to have these in my room at home. I even had some at boarding school, even though I had a couple roommates and I don't think they appreciated them. But they remind me of when I was a kid."

"They remind you of home," said Kurt. He got that. Sam had made this room his home not just by putting his stuff in it, but by bringing his memories with him.

"Yeah. I always really liked space and stuff, even when I was little. My dad says I used to watch _NOVA_ instead of _Sesame Street_. So he put them up on my ceiling in our old house, and I just started getting really into staring up at them at night, thinking about space and the universe and time and, like, life. How weird it is, you know, and, like, how small it is. That's kind of what I mean about perspective. The average human life goes by like the blink of an eye or something, compared to the universe. It makes me want to live life to the fullest. That's why I'm here."

Kurt's eyes burned; the stars blurred, and warm tears dropped down his cheeks so fast they hardly hit his skin before landing on his vest.

The stir was completely sudden and involuntary. All he could think was that he was glad the light was off; he wasn't sure whether that weird little speech was upsetting or inspiring, humbling or uplifting, disturbing or reassuring. He'd cried in front of others so many times – including Sam just this week in the God Squad meeting, and during every single performance of the reprise of "Edelweiss" during The Sing-along _Sound of Music_ (because when Captain von Trapp cries, the world cries with him), countless times in glee club, at his locker, on his dad's shoulder – that he wasn't ashamed to cry, or ashamed to feel things and show it. But he was still glad Sam couldn't see him. He didn't know how to handle people trying to comfort him. He wasn't sure he could be comforted if he started to think about everything too much. He knew he was upset because of Dave, but Sebastian and Blaine weren't far from his mind either.

As stoically as he could manage under the onslaught, Kurt said, "I intend to seize life, any way I can."

"Me too," Sam said. The mattress creaked, and Kurt could tell he'd shifted onto his back – could feel the dip of his weight close by. "I mean, I know I'm gonna get knocked down a lot. Everyone does. You see it every day. But I'm still gonna do everything I can, 'cause that's all I can do. I don't want to let anything stop me anymore. If something doesn't work, I'm not going to, like, force it, I'm just going to find a way around it."

Eyes still overflowing with a thousand squashed-away feelings escaping in the form of tears, Kurt ditched the empty chocolate box and leaned back till his head hit the soft flannel duvet, tears crawling down his temple into his hair.

"Anything's possible, right?" he asked Sam breathily, reaching up to try and quietly rub his eyes.

"Anything."

"Anything in the world can happen. Does happen."

"Definitely anything. All the time. Every day."

"Okay, well... this is not the conversation I came in here to have," Kurt laughed, awkwardly sniffling. "It's getting very Oprah, and I just want to warn you that we're about one set of pigtails away from doing cucumber and oatmeal masks and watching _Legally Blonde_."

"Oh, well, uh – we can talk more about blow jobs, if you want," said Sam, in such a serious tone it gave Kurt pause. Sam's shoulder suddenly felt very close to his.

"Oh, no, no. That's okay."

"Actually, I can do some pretty good pigtails. I have pigtail experience. So... I'm just saying, there's a lot of options."

"Yeah," Kurt huffed laughingly. "A whole universe of options."

 

Kurt came up out of consciousness with a neck ache. His face flinched against what he knew, even with his eyes shut, was gray-tinged morning light. His skin felt raw and tight. He hadn't moisturized before bed...

His eyelids pulled up; so did his head.

Brown. Plaid. Flannel.

Okay. He hadn't moisturized before _Sam's_ bed. And falling asleep on it. Apparently.

With a push of confused annoyance, Kurt pressed the heel of his hand against one eye and rubbed the sleep out of it slowly, mind sifting on autopilot back through his dreams to get to why he was where he was, fully dressed with his legs hanging over the side of the guest bed.

Ah, yes. Chocolate was the culprit. And glow-in-the dark stars that had completely faded at this point. And the universe in general.

He remembered talking idly through tears Sam hadn't seen, and way past them and into hazy exchanges about staring into space and getting vertigo, and whether or not they got sick on rides and stuff (no, rides were the best, sugar was the worst); Sam's childhood love of M&Ms and _Zoobooks_ ; how Kurt always made his dad have tea parties with him and how Sam had been to a few of those, hosted by Stacey; how lucky Sam was to have siblings, because Kurt played by himself most of the time because musicals were no one's cup of tea; how freaking scary the whole boat part of _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_ was, complete with hummings of _there's no earthly way of knowing... which direction we are going..._ with neither of them able to remember anything but that line.

He remembered each of their elbows hitting the other awkwardly as they talked and the weird moment when he realized that their biceps were resting comfortably against each other's and it didn't feel like he had to politely move to keep from offending Sam or something.

He didn't remember what exactly they'd been talking about when he fell asleep; he didn't remember purposefully closing his eyes.

A crick in his neck from sleeping without a pillow twinging in his muscles, Kurt turned his head to peer blearily at Sam through his sticky-feeling lashes. He was in pretty much the same position as Kurt, though at some point during the night he'd tucked his hands across his stomach. The thread of his slack fingers and the innocent tuck of his chin down toward his shoulder made him look either extremely serious or contented. Kurt looked at the rasp of golden hair on his forearm and over-popped knuckles. He eyed the light blue hoodie wide open around his chest, watching him breathe in shallow, short pulls that made his t-shirt stretch delicately over his ridiculously perfect pecs and watched him drift, off somewhere in a dreamland, unaware, untroubled. He looked at the slouch of Sam's knees over the mattress and the way his upper lip had tucked itself over his lower lip.

Though he hadn't been aware he'd tensed until he actually felt himself easing back down slowly against the mattress, Kurt realized he actually felt rather comfortable, product in his hair and clothes a bit too tight to sleep in aside. His eyes fell shut again; sleep felt nearby, as nearby as Sam. It was early... Kurt was an early bird by nature and always had an extensive to-do list for the weekends, even if the weekend was devoted to frivolous relaxation. But right then it somehow felt better to lie there with Sam in a safe cocoon, arms pressed together from elbow to shoulder again, warm. He turned his face toward Sam's, as Sam's was tilted his way. It was just insanely comfortable. The most comfortable. And strange to feel so cozy and so unwilling to head right for an invigorating shower.

Maybe he did snooze a little, or maybe he just had his eyes closed for a minute. Either way, when he opened them again, they found Sam's, hooded but focused on him, and he stared – stared like he'd stared at the stars on the ceiling, fixed and unblinking and seeing beyond them somehow and into other things, mind wandering – and Sam stared back, unperturbed.

After an indeterminate, infinite-feeling stretch of time, Sam offered him a slow, sleepy half-smile. Kurt's mouth twitched back automatically.

With an easy heave of shoulders, Sam pushed himself up onto his elbow, parting their arms, and the quiet moment seemed to be hovering on the edge of its destiny to snap and disappear like the delicate bubble it was.

But it hung on.

Sam stayed there in it with him, eyelids heavy over his gaze, mouth pressing into itself then blooming pink again and parting the slightest bit as he took in a soft breath. Kurt watched, disconnected from the way his heart was rabbiting away, racing at top speed for some reason he didn't know, as Sam blinked slowly and stared at Kurt's shoulder, the top button on his vest, stare skipping uncertainly from Kurt's chin to his eyes.

Something in Kurt clutched; he knew what was coming before Sam seemed to, and he didn't move, even though he could've, should've.

Sam dipped slowly, like sleep was still heavy in him, then Sam kissed him, the heat and softness of his lips only just sinking into Kurt's and aching there before Sam pulled back quickly, like a jolt had gone through him. His eyes were squeezed shut.

"'M sorry," he whispered immediately.

"It's okay," Kurt whispered back gently, though he wasn't sure how his voice didn't vibrate from how hard his heart was pounding, and it was definitely not okay.

He turned his face into his shoulder, feeling the heat of his own flush through his vest and shirt sleeve, struggling to take in air with constricted lungs that had no room in his chest to work. No. No. No, no, no. Something was unfurling, a monstrous supernova erupting from wherever he'd been stuffing down all his feelings, and he grabbed desperately at Sam's arm, grappling over his hoodie until he had it by the open zip and was tugging them back together. Sam's mouth caught his, and Kurt was huffing, muscles roiling, thighs curling, lips keeping Sam's startled moan for their own.

Kurt wanted.

He wanted to do something; he wanted so much. Too much.

His hands shook with desperation, excitement, determined rage as they grabbed at Sam's belt and jerked it open with a light clank, and Sam huffed openly at the ceiling, mouth suddenly freed as Kurt curled at the waist, not deterred by the total indignity of his own want as he worked Sam's zip down. Sam's new jeans fit him snugly, Kurt wasn't beyond noticing, but he attacked them with a grip that surprised Sam enough to make him mutter, "Kurt!" like he was frankly shocked as they were dragged down to his thighs.

Kurt's breath punched its way out of him in a harsh sigh; he'd fooled around with Blaine, and all, but the differences between Sam and Blaine (and Sam and Kurt) were so vast it was incredible. The thighs he bared were slim even though he could see right where the muscle was packed on, undoubtedly from all the swimming Sam had been doing since he joined the Guppies, and his boxers were clinging at them. Sam was skinnier than both he and Blaine, something about him so boyish Kurt felt starved – even just for the sight of something like Sam's thighs, with his jeans opened up and belt gaping there around them – but the most insane thing was that Sam was hard, so obviously boned he was tenting his underwear.

Kurt went for it, grasping over the arch of his hard-on there in the stretchy black boxer-briefs, and Sam's thighs tensed madly. Kurt heard him breathe out a twisted-sounding, "Gah."

"You're gonna get a blow job," Kurt informed him.

Sam staggered down from one elbow to two, then collapsed back fully, chest working for air, and Kurt shoved his t-shirt up his belly so he could see the honey-blond happy trail creeping towards Sam's belly-button from the waistband of his boxers, see his abs and the way his stomach dipped low from the rise of his ribcage. To his surprise, Sam helped him, grabbing at the hem of his shirt and rustling it up his ribs.

"Yeah, like that," Kurt breathed, surprised even further when Sam's other hand then shoved down and wrestled one side of his tight boxers down. He could feel the eagerness in Sam's muscles and it stabbed him low in the stomach, made him moan right from where it hurt. 

He let Sam do the work for him this time, stunned into a lull when Sam's dick popped free from the push of the elastic waistband and leaned heavily up his belly, throbbing there next to tawny pubes that matched his current hair color way more than that white-blond did, the flush of it intriguingly red.

Biting on his lower lip, Kurt took Sam gingerly in hand and gave him a stroke, feeling him stiffen even further right there in his fingers. He didn't even bother to stifle his gasp at the blast of heat that hit him and practically liquefied him to the bones. It was right, so right, holding a boy's cock this way. Touching a guy, understanding like no girl could, pumping his cock slow and admiring it. He liked it with Blaine, and he liked it now, but in a totally different way, a far more flatly physical way. The fact that Sam was such a handful was shamefully fascinating; the way his skin moved and clutched prettily up around the neck of his dick hot because it was just so Sam, just unique to him, like the way the head of his dick was flared and disproportionate like his mouth was.

Kurt glanced up heatedly to find Sam staring down at him in much the same way, jaw locked off to one side, brow furrowed, muscles tensed and uneasy.

"You want me to, don't you," he said as the realization swept over him, thrilling.

Sam nodded, messy-haired and earnest, but Kurt wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear that Sam wanted him to do this, wanted him to be the one doing this to him, because for the rest of their lives, no one else would ever be the first to have their mouth on Sam's gorgeous dick, just like Kurt would have done this already, if he and Blaine ever got to this point.

"I want to," he assured Sam in a heavy sigh, "so bad... you know I do... and you want me to, right?"

"Kurt," Sam breathed, short and pleading. The way his name was shaped in that mouth, gentle from beginning to end, soft consonants and terrible enunciation, was also just unbearably Sam-ish. Kurt's blood rushed and rioted just hearing it.

"I really want to," Kurt whispered.

"I want you to," Sam groaned vulnerably, music to Kurt's ears.

Kurt closed his eyes briefly, rocked by the feeling that gave him and exhaling slow and steady, like he would before a solo that filled the air with his high-pitched voice alone. He wanted to soak in every smell, every feeling and detail. He really had no idea what he was doing beyond his own distracted fantasies as he let his nose brush against Sam's shaft, following it clumsily up to the tip, palm spreading wide to support it. But Sam let out a pleading noise, and confidence surged and mutated in Kurt like crazy, all in a split second, the crazy hunger overwhelming. He forgot instantly about soaking it in, taking it slow. He wanted to suck this dick, blow Sam right there in his bed with Finn probably drooling in his sleep next door. He was all over it in a heartbeat, licking right at Sam's slit, tongue sliding across the silky-smooth head, and he could hear Sam's breath catch.

Frantic for more, Kurt slid his lips experimentally over the crown, holding sweetly around it and letting them slide up and off again wetly and feeling Sam's skin move, thin and satiny over the hardened flesh. His tongue flattened itself to follow the flare of it to the tip and then down again as he sucked, cushy, breathing in sharp, aroused pulls through his nose. The way Sam's knob gave slightly to the pressure of his mouth had him moaning to himself because it felt so slippery and tasted so sharp, like – God, it tasted like dick. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this, finally, sucking off a guy – Sam, of all people – and Sam was just clutching his t-shirt up and still had one thumb tucked into his boxers and was perfect, bared for him, wanting Kurt to worship his dick and not hiding it.

That's what it felt like – worshiping, God, getting to touch Sam with his hand clutched and jacking, slow but restlessly excited, and with his mouth. Kurt arched further, trying to fit a little more in his mouth, wildly responsive to the way he could hear Sam's injured, shallow breathing.

"God," Sam let out, and Kurt had no idea he could sound that way, so low and breathless and yet so completely at Kurt's mercy.

Kurt backed off slowly, getting hit with a strong whiff of spit and precome and heated dick as his lips slid off Sam with a tiny wet pop. "Okay?"

God, his mouth felt stupid, swollen and wet; he licked at his lips clumsily. He blinked at Sam, discovering it was brighter in the room and Sam's hair was lit up in actual sunlight, shining against the plain but soft duvet, and that there was a red flush down his cheeks and neck. His lips were drawn in a taut bow, but they parted around a breath for him. "Kurt..."

"Do you like that, Sam?" Kurt asked.

"Fuck, I've never –" Sam twitched, right in Kurt's hand. He didn't seem to know what he was saying.

"No one's ever sucked this pretty dick of yours, have they?" Kurt asked teasingly, feeling stupidly superior.

Sam just shook his head, as if Kurt didn't know.

"You like it, though?" Kurt pressed, letting his hand glide, silky and wet, up Sam's dick, pausing for a moment to let his tongue lick ticklesomely lightly up its spine. "...You like me doing this to you?"

"God, yeah," Sam finally admitted, voice breaking.

"Yeah, I think you do," Kurt gloated, taking a deep breath before easing Sam's dick into his mouth again, deeper, jaw stretching eagerly for it. His eyes squeezed shut as he concentrated on trying to let it slide in smooth and deep, like he totally knew what he was doing when he had no clue, vaguely aware his own dick was uncomfortably trapped in the tight squeeze of his ill-advised but flattering pants that he'd intended to have around his own knees at some point last night anyway. He was somehow close to gagging the harder he tried, but the sensation was almost more exciting than uncomfortable – the feeling of actually sucking a guy's dick so much hotter than his mind could have imagined when he thought of how it might be. He could feel his hair slipping across his forehead, coif ruined, and the insides of his cheeks hollowing to drag along Sam's cock as he craned to bob, to get it in his mouth again and again, so slippery now that his chin was wet.

"Kurt," Sam breathed again, an apprehensive puff of air with his soft dopey lack of shape. "'M gonna – if you don't stop –"

A shock of arousal tore through Kurt. He was just getting used to the feeling and finding a rhythm, just figuring it out – he didn't want to stop – but the idea of making Sam come from this right then was all he needed to groan in response, huffing and greedy, jerking Sam off urgently right into his mouth.

He could feel it hit Sam, jerking in his belly and swelling in his dick before Sam's come flooded his mouth, filling it in a few quick, sharp spurts. Kurt had tasted his own before, but this was Sam's, this was hot and fresh and right in his mouth, and Kurt shuddered, close to creaming his own pants just feeling Sam give it up to him, pulsing in his mouth.

After a moment, heart thundering in his ears, Kurt eased back slowly, hearing Sam grunt sensitively as his swollen, purpled knob slid through the ring of his lips.

His mouth was full of Sam's load, and he wanted to swallow it, but he wanted to see it, too, to see if it was as much as it felt like in his mouth, if it was anything like Blaine's, or his own. In some way it was hot just to hold it there on his tongue, too.

He slumped, only minorly aware of doing so, back onto his elbows, cock so hard he thought he might die, face so hot and sweaty he knew he was a wreck. Through his eyelids he could tell it was bright in Sam's room now, and Sam put a comforting hand on his burning cheek.

A moment later, Sam was kissing him, arching up and drawing Kurt's face to his, and Kurt squeaked in alarm, tensing, awareness crashing over him spectacularly. His mouth tasted like dick, like bitter spit and come – his mouth was sloppy and full of it, and Sam definitely did not want this on his lips, his soft lips, slack and warm and dropping open to suck at Kurt's chin and lower lip. His tongue touched Kurt's lip, licked down and capably cleaned where dribbles of spit had slipped free.

Kurt's hand dropped helplessly to his hard-on and rubbed it without mercy – he was so close, so close, and Sam's lips were persuading his to slip open – Sam's tongue was in his mouth, sliding through his own load and shoving it, all heavy and slippery, across Kurt's tongue. Kurt could feel his chest hitching repeatedly over the choke of tension in his throat. For a moment he was caught between the perfect feeling of Sam pushing his tongue into his mouth, deep and unafraid and shockingly nasty, and the intense clench of his balls as he lost it right in his pants. It was a feat he'd managed to avoid up to that point, but even though it was smothering and far too tight, he was coming so hard he was whimpering into Sam's mouth.

Clumsily groping its way to Kurt's, Sam's hand only made it in time to feel Kurt's cock throbbing hotly in the mess of his own jizz. Still, he squeezed eagerly, hand covering Kurt's, and made Kurt cry out weakly. The wet kiss broke and Kurt gulped without a second thought, swallowing everything that wasn't sticking to Sam's lips down and falling to his back, shoulder blades shaking, belly quivering.

Sam licked his lips slowly, perched there on his elbow over Kurt like he had been before, but this time he was tellingly half-naked and Kurt was trying not to cry from the sheer intensity of it all.

He didn't think he was angry, or sad.

He was just amazed. Amazed at himself, and at Sam. It was a mixed, trembly feeling. He let his eyes drift shut for a long minute, trying to pull himself together – demanding that he be together, because Sam seemed pretty stoic. 

"Okay, so," he spoke up tremulously, more out of breath than he'd realized. "I believe... we've irrefutably proven that anything can happen."

Sam chuckled, but it sounded just as winded as Kurt felt, and instead of answering, he simply flopped beside Kurt again, sighing.

"I mean, you kissed me," Kurt whispered.

"I know. I shouldn't've," Sam said, but he sounded like he was squarely taking the blame more than he sounded regretful. Then he asked tentatively, the words seeming more naked and strange in the daylight than they might have in the darkness, surrounded by glowy star stickers, "Do you think that maybe sometimes things happen the way they do for a reason? Like how some things don't work out, but then that leads you around to... other stuff?"

Kurt thought of Mercedes, repeatedly refuting Sam's advances, the chocolate box winding up in his hands instead of hers. He thought of Karofsky's texts he'd ignored and ignored and what could've happened if he'd answered even one of them. He thought of Sebastian's thoughtless cruelty and its ripple effects, and how without Sebastian, he might have spent Valentine's Day canoodling with his boyfriend and never had a reason to feel doubtful and irritated. If none of that had happened, Kurt definitely wouldn't have woken up in Sam's bed, let alone devoured him – even though it had felt so good to do it and was more than he could have ever imagined.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sam, who was looking at him with a pull of concern in his brow.

"Oh, yes," said Kurt, stretching luxuriously, then looping an arm around Sam's tucked there next to him. "The universe conspires. It's probably good you're keeping an eye on it."


End file.
